


Fun with sexual headcanons ...

by JaqofSpades



Category: Captain America (Movies), Glee, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Revolution (TV), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Multi, collection of multifandom oneshots, fun with sexual headcanons, not a cohesive story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So there was this meme going around, and I thought it would be fun to collect my responses.  Go on - throw me new couples to play with, and I'll tell you ...</p><p>*what was their first kiss like<br/>*where were they their first time having sex<br/>*who’s louder<br/>*who wakes up first<br/>*who performs/receives oral more often<br/>*who tries new things more often<br/>*if they had to choose a third+ person to include who would they include</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve and Darcy

Steve and Darcy's first kiss is borne of an irresistible impulse; more a dam breaking than an idle whim. 

They are close together, he can feel her warmth and smell her perfume, and the need simply swamps him to the point where self-restraint looks plain silly. She makes a sound of surprise at first, but fists her hand in his suit to stop him from escaping, and presses him back against the wall to make it very clear that he does NOT have permission to stop kissing her yet. 

Exploration gives way to sensuality within moments, and raw need follows hot on its heels. When they finally pull away from each other they are both blinking in surprise - it’s new, and shocking, and they are glad they managed to stop at a kiss while they still can. It’d be wise to talk about it before they go any further, they agree.

They never do. (Talk, that is.) They try, but talking about kissing leads to more kissing and then ‘go any further’ becomes rapidly academic.

*

"We need to talk,” he’d says, and Darcy just nods because, well. Yes. His place doesn’t seem like a good idea, and hers is definitely out, so they decide to be business-like about this thing and book a meeting room on the third floor. But there’s a new receptionist on that day, and she double books the room. She asks them to take the board room instead. So sorry, she says - you’ll rattle around in there, I know, but there just aren’t any of the small rooms available.

Darcy grumbles a bit, mainly to teach the new girl a lesson, but she spends five minutes spinning in the big chair at the head of the table while Steve slumps down next to her, a reluctant grin pulling at his lips. ”Are you sure you’re an adult?” he asks teasingly, then freezes. Is it possible she’s not 21?

"Relax, doofus," she drawls, rolling her eyes. "Legal for two whole years. Just because I don’t happen to be a stick in the mud like some people …"

She actually meant Jane, she confesses later, but she didn’t mind how Steve decided to prove he wasn’t a stick in the mud. When her backside hit the polished mahogany, she was pretty sure he was joking, but she’d come to see the error of her ways by the time her panties came off. 

*

Darcy mutters to herself constantly, and likes to bop around singing at the top of her lungs whether or not people are listening. She laughs loudly when something amuses her, and talks on the phone as if she’s yelling to someone in the next room. In bed, though. In bed, she yelps and moans and commentates enthusiastically as pays homage to her; she begs and pleads and prays and sings her gratitude when he unleashes her orgasm. Afterwards, when she’s sated and drowsy, is the quietest time of his day, Steve likes to think. He loves the fact that she neither needs to fill the silence with chatter, nor has any capacity to do so right then.

*

Steve wakes with the dawn and is usually back from a jog by the time Darcy is surfacing into wakefulness. Sometimes he showers and climbs back into bed with her after; sometimes she refuses to allow it, and licks the sweat from his body herself.

*

Steve figures out that Darcy doesn’t mind sucking his cock - she loves the control, and enjoys the moment he begins to stutter her name - but it doesn’t actually do so much for her physically. But for him, it’s a journey in sights and sounds and smells so arousing that he sometimes can’t wait until she comes, the need to feel her clutching him taking over and forcing him to rear up and bury himself inside of her. Other times, he has the patience for the slow road, and remembers to enjoy the scenery, smell the flowers, and be utterly merciless in wringing orgasm after orgasm from her shuddering body.

*

Darcy is a fan of sex shops, and that leads to some interesting additions to their sex life. The idea of parading their connection in a place like that is uncomfortable for Steve, but when she leaves a parcel on his pillow, he knows Christmas is coming. The kinks he already knew about - the round sway of a well-padded ass, a little more pain that is strictly healthy, curvy girls in wicked corsets - are magnified when Darcy decides he’s the one who should wear the nipple clamps, and that sometimes, she wants to fuck him. He’s astonished when she shows him the other use for the Internet, and when he points out it’s nothing too different to what places like the Hellfire Club started out like, she tells him that kind of fun still exists too.

*

Watching people fuck in corners is very hot and all, and sure, Darcy decided to take what she needed right there in their booth, but in the end, when they went looking for someone else, they started at home. Trust is important, and finding someone who understands what it’s like to have that weight on your shoulders - it was always going to be another of the Avengers. 

At first, she assumes he’ll want another woman, and she’s quite okay with that. Natasha is one of the more gorgeous people on the planet, and her eyes drift over Darcy’s boobs as much as any of her male colleagues do, so, yeah. That’ll probably happen at some point. But they are both a little bit astonished when a night out drinking turns into a night in, getting high, then a night of absolutely no sleeping as Thor and Captain America try to fuck each other through the bed. Darcy’s not going to lie - it’s the hottest thing she’s ever seen. Right up until the moment they both turn on her, and pounce.


	2. Puck and Rachel

That first kiss comes as a surprise to them both. Not the kiss itself - “let’s make out” is a universally understood signal, after all - but the power of it. The Tchaikovskian magnificence of it, Rachel muses later as she touches her bruised lips. The first glimmer of desire, lost in the swell of sensuality, then drowned in the overture, as his hands swept down her body and totally consumed all good sense. Very much a case of ‘here, have my panties and do what you will with them’ of it, she has to admit.

He laughs when she tells him this. ”Fuck, baby. You got all that from it? Got to admit I didn’t expect you to be able to suck the chrome off my fenders, but the minute you opened your mouth, I was just - “fuck, need more of this,” you know? I was so freaking hot for you, I wouldn’t have heard Tchaikovsky if he was bangin’ away right by my ear,” he shrugs, and that’s a compliment, she thinks, so she just smiles and pats his knee.

*

It’s more than six years later when he pitches up on her doorstep in New York, drops his duffle bag by the couch, and ends up in her bed instead. He’s beyond surprised this time - more stunned, and a little bit in awe of his luck, because he’d pretty much put Rachel in the “never gonna be mine” box. She’s also in the “she can’t have been that good” box, because that’s how he copes, and when the evidence proves otherwise, he’s just about ready to play those bangin’ Russian chords himself. ”We still Tchaikovsky?” he asks, and her fervent groan tells him everything he needs to know. ”Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff AND Prokofiev,” she sighs happily, and he pulls her back onto him, because he’s waited six years for this, and if its an overture she wants, he’s gonna make sure to give her a whole damn concerto. 

*

She’s the one who sings, though. She might as well be yodelling, sometimes, for the noises that come out of that beautiful mouth. Girl does not do volume, that’s for sure, and thank goodness for sound proofing because sometimes it sounds like he’s murdering her, all the noise she makes. His favourite sound is the wail that rises from her when she simply can’t find any words, a shriek that could be pain, even though he’s only heard her use it in pleasure. It makes him grin just to think of that noise, and hey. It’s gotta hurt to come that hard, he figures.

*

He loves going down on his girl, no lie. He’d eat pussy all day if she’d let him, but the thing with Rachel is that she’s just fixated on all things oral. And he’s seen girls who get off on the power, on making the guy lose control, but it’s not even that. She closes her eyes to taste him, and spends ages just running her tongue over him, tracing the veins or dancing over his helmet almost in a daze. It’s the way he feels, she confessed once, as well as the way he tastes. She just likes it.

A lot, Puck smirks. She likes it a lot, and that makes him one of the luckiest men alive.

*

So Puck knows he’s a horndog, and he’s done some things - and a lot of people - he probably shouldn’t have. So he kinda keeps it on the down low when he talks about that stuff with Rachel. It’s not being dishonest - if she asks, he’ll tell her - but he doesn’t bring stuff up much. Doesn’t try to influence what they do and don’t do in bed. And letting her take the lead works out just fine, most of the time.

Because Rachel’s pretty damn adventurous. She’s a performer, alright. Loves her props, and her toys, and her costumes. Hell yes. And he doesn’t need other people in his sex life, not now that’s he’s with her. Rachel B. Berry is more than enough for any man.

So when she brings it up, he just about coughs up his Cheerios. (He likes sex _before_ breakfast, okay?) 

*

Santana’s coming over tonight, she says casually. He groans - because Satan lately means her superbitchy red-headed girlfriend - and Rachel swats him with the newspaper. ”Be nice! She broke up with Joanna last week, and is feeling low. So I thought we might try to cheer her up.”

"Cheer her up how?" he asks around his mouthful of pure sugar, and he’ll be replaying that smile in his mind for years.

"Together, baby. We’ll cheer her up together," she said, and he swears every blood cell in his body marched straight to his cock.


	3. Charlie and Bass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexual headcanons for Charlie Matheson and Bass Monroe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have gotten a bit carried away with Charloe. *blushes* Requested by romeokijai and futaimm :D

Sometimes she thinks he’s given her a thousand kisses before his lips ever touch hers. An angry, biting kiss before she walks away the first time, and a slow, wondering kiss in the mill that night, before everything goes to shit. A tear-stained kiss goodbye, and that slow, dopey hello. Countless thank-god-we-survived kisses, the air singing between them as they stare, and stare, and stare. She wonders, for a long time, if anything could be as good as that tension, the what-if of it, the way his eyes on hers leave her molten and aching.

And then he kisses her.

They’d been arguing, of course. She’d come to Austin to join him, and found the General in full flight. He’d looked down his fucking nose and told her to go find the recruitment tent; she’d said something unwise and he’d said something crude in return. So far, so Monroe. But when he looked away, she could see the muscle working in his jaw, and taste his indecision. The plea that eventually came was low and raw, near unrecognisable from this master of silken persuasion. 

“I don’t want you to see me like this, Charlotte. Please go.”

So after all the battles they’ve had, all the nights staring at each other across the campfire, all the hot moments and near explosions, when he kisses her, it’s soft, and sorrowful. Too gentle, and reeking of finality.

So she bites at his mouth and shoves him backwards onto his cot, hands rough and furious. “You can knock that shit off because I’m not going any-fucking-where,” she hisses, trying to stay angry even as her head starts to spin at the feel of him, the ridiculously soft curves of his lips and the sandpaper scratch below. Her tongue is sliding over his cheekbone when he finally surrenders, hands tearing at her clothes as she starts to grind down, his mouth following his eyes in a desperate quest to explore every newly-bared patch of skin. He keeps returning to her lips, though, one minute attacking her with open-mouthed ferocity, the next breathing her in, tongue sliding along her own, hands worshipful as they cradle her face.

They’re interrupted, of course. The general’s tent in the middle of a field army is hardly the place for new lovers to unwrap each other for the first time. Their eyes cling as they force themselves apart, and Charlie gasps. His stare is an inferno now, so far past kisses that it makes her blush, and quiver, and press her thighs together in a bid to stop them shaking.

*

The march on Libertyville takes a week. Mostly, Charlie travels with the team of Rangers she’s been assigned to, scouting ahead to clear any obstacles and advise the brass of what to expect in the coming day. There’s no chance to talk, other than quiet asides at the campfire, or the stolen moments when he requests she brief him personally.

They get the odd side-eye, but most people are too scared of General Monroe to ask. One kid, though, younger than her and yet to learn any sort of discretion, plops down next to her when she’s cleaning her gun one evening and asks her outright. Charlie almost laughs at how hard the dozen or so people around the campfire pretend not to be listening.

She gropes for something resembling the truth, but really, where do you start?

“He’s family,” she says eventually, and yes, she’s probably setting the cat among the pigeons, but after that, nothing else feels right.

They fight house to house in Libertyville, the nano zombies grinning as they launch themselves onto her swords, and she’s sick with the carnage by the end of the night. His own advisors had begged him not to throw himself into the battle, but he’d ended up at her back, and afterwards, they collapse together into the first bed they find.

She wakes just after dawn. The bed is empty beside her, but still warm, and her smile is pure joy when he manoeuvres his way through the door with a bucket of cold water and a handful of rags. “Take your clothes off,” he says, and her heartbeat seizes for a moment.

They wash each other, and as the blood and dirt and gore falls away, wandering hands become wandering mouths, then the frenzied embrace of intertwined limbs.

“Perfectly good bed over there,” he grunts at one point, but she laughs and slams her hips down again, driving him into the floor. And after that, it seems churlish not to christen the chair someone had so thoughtfully left in the corner of the room, or the windowsill that looks over the field behind the house.

The bed is too soft, they decide, except for sleeping. And for exploring each other, the slow, sweet worship of every scar and dimple and ridge and cavern. But as their need mounts, they invariably end up on the floor, the handiest piece of furniture, the nearest wall.

The Libertyville house becomes the headquarters of the Texan military forces for three whole weeks, the kitchen busy with half a dozen cooks and the dining room transformed into the officer’s mess. What was once a billiards table is loaded up with maps, and every chair in the place makes its way into the briefing room.

But Monroe makes it clear that the second floor is his private domain. There are bedrooms aplenty in the abandoned town. This house – upstairs at least – is his.

And hers, it becomes obvious when she blearily makes her way down to the kitchen one morning. The clamour in the mess suddenly dies, and she realises no one had managed to put two and two together yet.

Oops, she thinks, then shrugs, and vows to think about it after she’s had her coffee.

*

Which is ridiculous, she decides by the end of her second cup. Because she and Bass had tried to be a bit discreet, kept it strictly upstairs and all, but Jesus. They’d christened every surface in this house. Loudly.

Didn’t they have ears?

As much as she’d like to think he’s louder than she is – some of the noises she can pull from him when she pushes him up against the wall and yanks his trousers down around his knees are damn impressive – the reality is, for a girl who is quieter than most everyone she knows, she’s really loud when she comes.

Not just a little girly noises either, all choked breaths and muttered exhalations. It’s different each time, but those moments when the pleasure rises up and blindsides her, she yowls like an angry cat. And when he torments her, traces her lower lips with his tongue and tugs at her clit with his teeth then works his fingers inside of her to send her spiralling again and again, the bastard, then she tends to wail. Long and loud. And beg.

She really hopes no one else can hear the things she’s saying, but fuck ‘em. Anyone with a set of ears knows exactly what’s going on upstairs and it’s not like they hadn’t been gossiping about “Matheson and Monroe, mark two” beforehand.

And maybe, she smiles as she watches him over the rim of her cup, they didn’t really give a fuck who listening when they had this, had each other, after so many months of keeping it all inside.

*

She’s been up before the sun for years, heading out early to take advantage of the stillness of the dawn, the forest heaving with life before the human world wakes up. She still slips out on occasion – no matter how many times he rages about how dangerous it is – and he’s usually still sleeping by the time she returns.

She likes to watch him sleep, his cold General’s mask set aside, features soft and astonishingly beautiful in the golden morning. She’s pretty sure he’s actually prettier than she is, the strong planes of his face made breathtaking by the sensuous curves of his lips. They are a lush, startling pink against the gold-tipped field of his beard, and she likes to wake him softly by breathing into those lips, that mouth, that soul – “wake up, love”. 

He always smiles, happy every day he can open his blue eyes to hers, and pulls her in tight for a kiss that replies “I am awake, we are together, all is well.” 

*

So, she’d never really done that. Never seen the attraction, truth be told. Wasn’t one for getting down on her knees and simpering up at a man. But then – he happens.

Charlie’s got her head on his chest, dragging her fingertips over everything she can reach, learning him by heart. A flick with her fingernail has those flat pink nipples standing up in no time, and he’ll devolve into a series of fervent curses when she uses her teeth. Her hand stroking over his belly pushes his heartbeat faster with every inch she moves lower, and the thick vein that traverses his cock starts to pulse. The temptation to trace it with her tongue floors her.

She glances up at his face to find him watching her like a hungry wolf. “Would you – do you …” she breaks off, looking away as the welter of scarlet blushes claims her. It’s insane because he’s spent hours – days, probably – with her knees thrown over his shoulders, face buried so deep in her sex he reeks of her afterwards. And yet she’s embarrassed by the urge to return the favour. 

His hand pulls her chin back towards him to catch her in his gaze. “What, Charlotte? Would I what?”

She glances towards his cock again and positively burns. His voice is hoarse when he lets her off the hook.

“Would I like you to suck me? Of course I would, sweetheart. But only if you want to.”

Her indecision is clearly written all over her face, because he’s smiling and tugging her towards him, dropping kisses wherever his lips land, so sated and happy and devoted to her that every part of her just throbs.

“I want to,” she says suddenly, and twists herself around. He’s quiet behind her, then seizes her hips to pull her over him.

“Race you,” he says, and then drags his tongue all over her sex in a delicious, warm bath that sets her already sated body back to buzzing. His gentleness allows her to explore his cock as slowly as she likes, and she finds herself echoing him, slow lick for slow lick, gentle suck for gentle suck. Their game becomes heated, then urgent, and she’s slavering all around him by the time his tongue starts to fuck her in earnest. Her entire being is split between the taste and feel of him, musky satin and steel in her mouth, and the storm building in her sex, and she grips his cock in both hands and scrapes her teeth up his length. After that, his movements become as urgent and shuddery as her own, and by the he starts to jerk into her mouth she is so busy coming all over his face that the juddering spurts of his release are just one more sensation to drown in.

“Uh. Wow,” she mutters into the afterglow, somewhat stunned by how primal the experience had all been.

Bass fondles her ass and grins at the ceiling. “That’s why it’s a classic,” he smirks, and Charlie can’t find a single damn reason to disagree.

She simply smiles, stretches and surrenders herself to the inevitable. They’ll be doing that a lot.

*

It drives her mad. It’s all new to her, this astonishing, mad descent into pure carnality, but sometimes she wonders if she’ll ever be able to surprise him. He’s been sexually active since well before she was born, and this translates to there being practically nothing he hasn’t done. Of all the problems that might have arisen from the vast age gap, this one she never saw coming.

She’d befriended a fighter who’d spent most of her teenage years in a brothel, and had a near-encyclopaedic knowledge of men. Her smile had been sad when Charlie finally confessed the problem.

“That’d only be a problem if he’s keeping you around for sex, kiddo. Guess you have to ask yourself – what’s he want from you? And are you willing to give it to him? After that, everything else is just noise.”

That night, she ties a red ribbon to the knocker on the front door, puts another on the upright at the bottom of the stairs, and a third decorating the doorknob leading into their bedroom. Something tells him to dismiss his staff early, and once they’ve all trooped out, he makes his way upstairs, stroking the lengths of ribbon he has collected along the way.

She’s waiting on their bed, nude except for a jaunty bow tied over her midriff, loose ends just begging to be pulled on.

“I’m yours. For as long as you want me,” she says simply, and his heart stops, because no one – no one – has ever delivered themselves over to him before, wholly and without condition.

*  
“Miles and I,” he starts, and she shushes him. “I know, Bass. I know.”

He peers over at her, as if looking in her eyes can explain which version of the truth she’s operating on. Charlie snorts and knows they can’t avoid the topic forever.

“Way back at the beginning, when we first started looking for Danny, he was a mess. Nora didn’t want to explain why, but I followed him and kept asking ‘til he lost it. Miles says some interesting things when he’s pissed at you,” she sighs.

Bass winces, his automatic understanding yet another indicator of their intertwined pasts.

“But does it bother you?”

She wants to tell him no, but she’s promised never to lie to him, and it does, okay? Just not in the way he thinks.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re with me because I’m kind of like him. I mean, I know it’s not true, but if it was just a sex thing, it might be easier to understand. Mathesons are pretty hot, after all,” she smirks, a flash of levity before her face smoothes to seriousness once more.

“But it’s not like I’ve heard of you being with other guys, or anything like that. Just Miles. So I wonder.”

He clears his throat and she can feel how difficult this discussion is for him, every muscle in his body tense as he wrestles with the weirdness that is him and Miles. Him, her and Miles, Charlie thinks, then yanks her attention away from that sanity-stealing thought.

(Oh God. Would she really? Would _they_?) 

The shiver that moves over her skin feels uncannily like the first stirrings of arousal, and the worst thing is, it’s not unfamiliar. She’s felt it before, staring at her uncle’s craggy face through the firelight, or watching him fight.

Standing between them that day at the mill, knowing nothing, but feeling everything. A magnet spinning madly between two poles. Irrevocably drawn to them both.

One day, she knows, he’ll get tired of Willoughby. Tired of trying to be the good guy, and never quite measuring up. And he’ll come to them. There will be long, whiskey-soaked nights, at least some of which will probably end in a fight, and that weird sort of male bonding that seems to consist of half smiles and low level insults.

And maybe the question will come up, and maybe it won’t, and even if it does, it’s sure as hell not a foregone conclusion. Even so.

Miles doesn’t have to know what she and Bass fantasise about in the privacy of their bedroom. But if he ever asks?

She’ll tell him.

_fin_


End file.
